Duped
by hansprinsessa
Summary: Pam manages to trick Eric into a impromptu shopping trip. Eric gets a bit grouchy. 100% Paric lemonfluff.


**A/N: A little Paric one-shot for you guys. Major writers block on BWAC, I had to try to switch it up so I could get over it :) This is all fluff and smut. And a little more smut. There's a bit of D/s themes, so if that bothers you, you might want to turn back now. **

**This was inspired by a night of RP with my best squishy, Courtney (hennesjavlaprins), and our beloved Paric babies. A lot of Eric's inner monologue and dialogue is taken directly from her bestEricever, so I'm giving credit and mad props to her wonderful writing and Viking cock swag where credit is due. Enjoy, my loves.**

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Duped.

A thousand years old and he had been duped, fair and square, by a vampire who was, to him anyway, still a baby.

_His baby_, he thinks possessively, as loses himself watching the top of her blonde head bobbing between long racks of clothes for a moment. He scowls as a man inside watches her for what he deems to be far too long, before he remembers he's supposed to be angry. At _her._

Pouting is more like it. If pouting was something that Eric Northman did, that is. He had been much too absorbed in his phone call with the sheriff of the neighboring area to pay her any attention in the car as they drove to, he thought, Fangtasia for the evening. Looking back, he wonders when he started obeying her commands so readily, since he had heeded her whispered _turn here's _without question or second thought.

Which was how he finds himself in his current, and rather humiliating, predicament. Huffing petulantly, he lowers himself onto the bench behind him, trying to ignore the hustle and bustle of the irritating human patrons in this godforsaken mall she's drug him to. Without his consent. Even though _he _was in control of the car.

He had flat out refused to follow her into the store, so she had shoved her purse into his arms before turning with her usual flourish, blonde hair flying, to march into the store alone, leaving him standing there gaping after her in irritation, but obediently clutching her purse all the same.

Fucking _duped. _And, although he would never admit it out loud, more than a little whipped.

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, he raises his eyes once again, waiting impatiently until a herd of school-age wannabe thugs move past until his eyes can fall on her again. No matter how irritated he is, he still can't seem to take his eyes off of her, which only serves to irritate him more.

Pam looks up at the same time he does, catching his eye, her own glittering as she tries not to laugh at how utterly ridiculous he looks splayed across the bench that barely looks strong enough to hold his weight, her hot pink Prada bag sitting in his lap, a dejected scowl plastered across his handsome face. But she has to admit to herself, he looks as regal as he does on that stupid throne of his, even as he obviously pouts.

Her eyes lower back to the clothes lining the racks of the store once again, a small frown of concentration on her lips, but she can feel his eyes boring into her the entire time she browses.

In all honesty, she didn't really want or need anything in this store. She had just been bored while he was yacking endlessly away on the phone, and decided to entertain herself seeing how many right turns she could get him to take until he noticed they were driving in a giant circle.

But, seeing the mall approaching, she couldn't resist. She was surprised, though, when he actually parked his precious Corvette in the packed lot and got out, and he looked positively murderous when he ended his phone call. She knew she was in trouble, but the look of pure horror on his face when he saw the husbands and boyfriends of the human women dutifully carrying armfuls of bags like loaded pack mules had been worth any consequences of her actions.

She's interrupted from her musings when she feels a little tug on their bond, and she looks up to find, unsurprisingly, his blue eyes locked on hers despite the distance and the large plate glass storefront windows between them.

"Hurry the _fuck_ up," he silently mouths, his impatience in their blood punctuating his words, before adding, seemingly as an afterthought, "_Please_."

She merely arches an eyebrow in response; he knows better than this. She _was_ about to join him, but now? Now, she suddenly feels the urge to try something on.

There was only one thing that had caught her eye, and she wanders further back in the store to search for it.

She finds quickly, pulling its hanger down off the rack, and she lowers her head to hide her smile as she makes her way to the fitting room. Once inside, she slides the latch closed on the door and hangs her dress up on one of the hooks on the wall, taking a moment to admire it.

It hadn't so much caught _her_ eye, as she had known it would catch _his _eye. And more importantly, it would _hold _it. Deep, blood red, his favorite color (so stereotypical, she thinks with a dramatic roll of her eyes), at a length that would show off her legs and a plunging neckline that, well...she was already imagining wearing it to Fangtasia, looking forward to watching him shift uncomfortably on his ridiculous throne all night, his eyes glued to her while she worked the door.

She had never denied that she loved attention. Especially from _him._

Quickly peeling off her sweater and slacks, she continues until she's stripped herself bare. Not wasting any more time, knowing she's pushing her luck, and somewhat worried she might find herself to be the next abandoned child at the mall, she carefully removes the dress from its hanger before stepping into it.

After she secures the thin straps around her neck, she reaches behind her to pull up the zipper, frowning to herself when she can't reach it. Her frown quickly curls into a mischievous smile, though, when she gets an idea.

Closing her eyes, she concentrates on their bond as she tries to imagine the most horrifying things she can possibly think of. Children with saggy diapers and snotty noses that bear an uncanny resemblance to her, wailing and crying for their mommy. A fire in their home that originates in her beloved closet. Louboutin, Choo, Prada, and Vuitton all going out of business simultaneously and with no warning.

She hears gasps and shrieks from the other women in the dressing room seconds before her door bursts open, and she's forced to duck as the lock on the door goes flying through the air, slamming into the mirror behind her, causing long cracks to form in the glass. It reveals her maker, his fangs down and chest heaving, his eyes wild, letting her know without a doubt that her attempt at convincing him she was deathly afraid of something had worked like a charm.

"The fuck, Pam?" he questions her harshly, his eyes darting quickly around the small space. His eyes narrow when he sees her fighting a smile, and it occurs to him just how ridiculous he must look, bursting in a women's dressing room clutching an over-sized pink purse.

His fangs retract into his gums with a click once he sees she's not in some life-or-death situation. When his eyes land on her once again, he questions her, softer this time. "What is wrong?"

She smiles, sickeningly sweet, before she turns her back to him, gesturing to her zipper. "Zip me up, please?"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" he growls, but she watches his reflection as he takes a step forward.

She shrugs carelessly, before she answers, "Well, I couldn't call you on the phone, it's in my purse."

"Fuck your purse," he snaps, tossing it carelessly to the floor. But despite his protests, he takes another step towards her, his eyes hungrily following the exposed curve of her spine as he growls, "I am _not _amused, Pamela."

"Do you like my dress?" she purrs, ignoring him, her eyes on his reflection in the mirror before her.

"Yes," he snaps, his irritation still rolling off of him in waves, but it doesn't seem to stop him as he steps forward, gently gathering her long hair in one large hand before he tosses it over one shoulder. His fingers linger on her neck for a moment, before he slowly drags them down her back, hovering over the zipper. Agonizingly slowly, he pulls it up, before he pulls her hair back over her shoulder, letting it fall once again in a cascade of blonde waves down her back. His eyes meet hers once again in the mirror, before he growls threateningly, "I should take you over my knee in front of this whole mall for that little stunt, you fucking brat."

He can't help but smile when he sees her shiver, instantly lightening his mood. He leans forward, his lips by her ear, the stubble of his cheek just barely brushing hers as he whispers gruffly, "Red suits you, min prinsessa." She smiles at his compliment, one that she's heard from him a thousand times before, but still one that she hopes to hear a thousand more.

She watches his reflection move, distorted as it is by the freshly broken mirror, as his arm snakes around her waist, pulling her against back against his chest. Without her heels to even their height difference, he has to crane his neck to press his cheek against hers, both of them watching the movement of his hand as he traces the neckline of her dress, down between her breasts, almost down to her navel.

Her eyes have fluttered closed under his touch, but his voice causes them to pop open again as he commands, "You will not be wearing this to Fangtasia."

"Oh?" she questions, her tone more breathy than she means for it to be.

"No," he reiterates, "You may wear it for me, though."

She shrugs, pulling away from him, her hand reaching for the one settled around her waist as she goes. She grins when he twists his arm, twirling her around in a circle, and she stops facing him, turning to peer over her shoulder in the mirror to examine her rear view.

His eyes, meanwhile, are examining her _front_ view, and he's almost so distracted that he doesn't hear her when she finally answers him. "Eh," she says with a wide smile, "I think I'll wear it to work tomorrow night."

"I don't fucking think so," he retorts, his eyes still locked on her copious amounts of cleavage. _His_ cleavage, cleavage that he suddenly finds the idea of the patrons of his club gaping at to be unacceptable, feeling stupid even as the very idea hits. Neither of them are typically the jealous type, but, as his eyes fall once again to her almost fully exposed breasts, he feels himself bristle, possessiveness spiking through his blood.

She rolls her eyes, no doubt feeling it too, before she turns again, staring pointedly over her shoulder until he reaches out, lowering the zipper for her. She unties the halter top from around her neck, letting the dress fall, the fabric pooling on the floor around her bare feet. She steps out of it, before she bends at the waist to pick it up, waiting until she feels his spike of lust to know his attention is captured before she finally replies non-noncommittally, "We'll see."

She ignores his growl of disapproval as she carefully hangs the dress back up, turning to face him with a bright smile, only to be faced with his obvious irritation, his mouth pressed into a hard line. "You are testing my patience tonight, child," he warns in a motoring growl.

"_That's_ hard to do," she answers sarcastically, but she frowns when she realizes he's not joking, taking a small step towards him. "I'm sorry I'm testing your paper-thin patience, darling," she whispers, her voice as sarcastic as usual, but he can feel the honesty in her blood underneath it all. He tilts his chin down, watching as she closes the distance between them, and he knows she didn't truly mean to irritate him, no more than he is truly angry.

He arches an eyebrow though, pulling his eyes from the sway of her full breasts, watching as she reaches out to hook her fingers behind the buckle of his belt, using her inhuman strength to pull him against her.

She pulls her lower lip between her teeth, biting down lightly; something she knows drives him fucking insane. She peers up at him through her lashes, still nibbling on that full lower lip, causing his cock to twitch almost painfully in his too-tight jeans.

"Perhaps I can make it up to you?" she asks coyly, going right back to biting that fucking lip as soon as she's done speaking.

"Perhaps you could..." he answers softly, reaching out to cup her cheek, his thumb plucking her lip from between her teeth, unable to stand it another second.

She laughs softly, and he laughs with her, the smile lingering on his lips even as the sound dies away, his fingers still caressing her pale cheek. It's then that they both seem to realize they're alone; his abrupt arrival obviously scaring away the patrons from the dressing room for good. Suddenly, she licks her lips, her fingers tugging on his belt buckle as she stands on her tip-toes to press her lips against his.

When he doesn't return her kiss, she pulls back to look at him in confusion. He merely stares down at her as he backs away, pulling her small hands from his belt, leaving her standing there looking more than a little distraught. And nude. And _so_ fucking beautiful.

"Eric," she whines, "I said I was sorry."

"No," he answers as he turns, somehow managing to wedge the broken door closed before he shrugs off his leather jacket, making a show of hanging it on the hook on the back of the door. "I don't believe you did."

"Well," she retorts, "I said I would make it up to you."

He smiles softly down at her, before his eyes drop to his wrists as he begins to unbutton his cuffs on his shirt. "And you will."

"Well," she repeats, her gaze following his hands as he rolls his sleeves up his forearms, "Making it up to you implies an apology."

"Does it?" he asks, feigning interest, as his hand rises to unbutton the top button of his shirt at his throat.

Although his tone is light, she doesn't miss the change in his eyes, suddenly predatory. She takes a step back, her own eyes going wide as she looks up at him, answering him hesitantly, "Yes, it does. I was just having fun, Eric. I _am_ sorry, you know."

Now his hands go to his belt, unfastening the buckle before he pulls it free from its loops, answering her quietly, "Oh, you will be."

And just like that, the mood shifts between them, and her eyes dart down as he doubles his belt over in his hand. She smiles nervously, although suddenly it's as though her whole body is hyper aware of his. Finally, she breaks the heavy silence that's fallen between them, struggling to keep her tone light as she whispers, hating the squeakiness of her voice, "I…I'll just get dressed then, so we can go?"

He shakes his head slowly, turning to drop his tall frame onto the small chair sitting in the corner of the room, waiting until he gets settled to answer her. "I don't think so. I think I had the right idea earlier."

"Which was?" she asks softly, pretty sure she already knows the answer.

"I think I should take you over my knee."

"No, Eric," she says with shake of her head.

"Yes, I think so," he answers with a smile. "I'm not one to make idle threats, am I, my sweet?"

"No," she whispers, taking a step toward him despite herself.

"And I've been far too lenient with you as of late, don't you think?"

She smiles down at him, but doesn't answer. It wouldn't do to agree with him, even though they both know it's true.

"Come here, Pamela," he murmurs, his deep voice suddenly like velvet.

"Eric," she says quietly, "No. I _shop_ here."

"And I've basically trashed this dressing room, it seems," he answers with a nod towards the door and mirror. "You're probably already banned for life." Suddenly he smiles, all pearly-white teeth and charm as he purrs, "Let's make the most of it."

She can't help the shiver that runs through her at his tone, full of dark promise, sending excitement and lust racing through her, not to mention a healthy dose of fear. Not fear that he might hurt her, no; this is what she craves, what they _both_ crave. Violence and blood and passion, his dominance and her complete submission to it.

He watches her closely as she inches towards him hesitantly, even though he can clearly feel her desire in her blood, smell her arousal. He holds out his hand, and almost immediately she takes it, laying her tiny hand in his much larger one. He squeezes it lightly, his eyes on hers, waiting patiently.

Ever since the night he made her his, he had treated her as his equal, something many vampires couldn't, or wouldn't, understand. And in this, it's no different. Even in the games they play, even when he seeks her submission, it's for the both of them. He would _never_ degrade her, never let her think he thought any less of her than that.

Finally, he sees her tiny, shy smile, and an almost imperceptible nod of her blonde head, and immediately he strikes, pulling harshly on her arm, landing her across his lap in one fluid motion. He pulls her arms roughly behind her, clasping both of her wrists in one large hand at the small of her back.

She lowers her head, closing her eyes, her long hair falling like a curtain around her, jumping as she feels the smooth leather of his belt trailing gently down her spine, not stopping until it brushes between her thighs, and she gasps when it barely touches where she's already becoming desperate for his touch. She whimpers softly when he pulls it away, and she tosses her hair so it's out of her face, turning her head so she can see her, _their, _reflection in the mirror. Desire tears through her at the sight of them; her completely nude while he remains completely clothed, and in total control of her, some primal part of her knowing that this is the way it should be. He's her maker. He deserves this, and she _wants_ this, so much so she's almost shaking with it.

When he repeats his process with his belt, only this time continuing on to trail down her thigh, she whispers, trying her best to sound casual although her voice is already shaking with need. "Now who's testing whose patience, min mästare?"

He looks up then, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror, not answering her right away as he studies their reflection. Finally, he speaks quietly, dragging the belt down the length of her leg before he runs it slowly over the soles of her bare feet. "Tell me, what do you know of patience, mitt barn?"

She shrugs as best she can with her arms held behind her back. "More than you, old man."

She barely has a chance to brace herself before she feels the belt strike her backside, the only sounds breaking the silence of the empty dressing room besides the sound of the leather whistling through the air being her sharp intake of breath.

Eric watches, a smile curving his lips, as the red mark he leaves behind slowly fades away. He pulls back, striking her again, harder this time, this one earning a small whimper from her, and he growls a command under his breath, "Not a fucking sound, Pamela."

Immediately, she snaps her mouth closed, biting down harshly on her lip to keep quiet. She manages not to make a sound through the next several blows, each one coming quickly on the heels of the last, not giving her a moment to recover. Soon, she's shaking, all her nerve endings on edge, and if she was allowed to speak she would be begging for more. More pain, more pleasure. It's already becoming one in the same.

He pauses for a moment, smoothing the edge of the leather across her smarting skin, enjoying the sight of the red welts he's left behind until her body begins to heal them. His eyes travel up to the mirror in front of them, relishing in their reflection. He was used to everyone else submitting to his every whim. He could have this from any woman he has ever run across, and he _knows_ it. She, however, has always been the exception to any rule. Somehow, knowing that he doesn't require her submission to him in any way makes the fact that she's willing to offer it to him, that she _wants_ to offer it to him, all the more sweet.

Their connection, from their very first night together, has always been deeper than ever made sense. She's been the only being to ever exist that has told him no and lived to tell the tale. The only person on earth who challenges him. The only one worthy enough to be his equal. And yet, she _chooses_ to give herself to him, to submit to him.

_Only him._

He raises the belt again, delivering another round of blows, and true to his order she doesn't make a sound, besides the haggard, unnecessary breaths she's taking as she writhes in his lap as best she can with her hands still held tightly behind her back. Suddenly desperate to feel her soft skin, he tosses the belt down, letting it clatter to the floor in front of her.

Her skin is so over-sensitized she can feel every callous on his palm as he soothes her stinging flesh with his hand, lulling her into thinking it's over, before he raises his hand, smacking her ass hard. She feels him shift as he leans down, his breath cool against her cheek as he whispers, "You may speak, my love."

Before she gets the chance, he slaps her again, but this time his palm trails down further, dipping between her thighs. They both groan simultaneously as his fingers brush her entrance, already dripping wet, but before she finds any relief, she feels the crack of his hand against her backside once again.

"Pamela," he murmurs, unable to hide the hoarseness of his voice, "Are you going to be bad again?"

"Maybe not tonight," she whispers insolently, and she squeaks in pain and pleasure as she earns herself another slap, although this time immediately his fingers dip between her legs, just barely entering her before they're gone again.

"Are you going to make me look foolish in public again?" he asks softly.

"As soon as possible," she answers with a laugh, although it's cut short with a moan when he hits her again, harder this time.

"Insubordinate little shit," he growls, "I should whip you until you can't walk." Despite his threats, he releases her hands, his hand sliding down once again, dipping into her exposed folds, this time allowing two of his long fingers to sink inside her. He groans as she moans, feeling how wet she is, and he adds in a whisper, "You'd just enjoy it, just like you enjoyed this. Too much."

"Too much," she echoes breathlessly, a strangled sound escaping her as he begins to move his fingers in and out of her, his thumb circling her clit in a lazy rhythm.

All too soon, he can feel her begin to tighten around them, and much to her dismay he withdraws his hand as he murmurs, "I don't think you've earned that yet, little girl."

She whimpers pitifully as he denies her the release he's built, and she can't help the desperation in her tone as she whispers, "I want to. Eric, please."

He's silent for a moment as his fingers trail up her spine, but when he speaks, his voice is dark, laced with a makers command.

"On your knees."

Her body reacts to his words immediately, scrambling from his lap as soon as he releases her. Her knees hit the cold floor of the dressing room as she sits back on her heels between his boots, her hands resting behind her back, her eyes downcast; knowing without him having to tell her exactly what he expects from her, what he wants from her, what _she_ wants to give him. This is true submission. And despite their every day relationship, despite her love for the way he treats her, she _craves _giving him this gift.

She can feel his compulsion in her blood, giving her permission to meet his eyes, and she looks up at him immediately, meeting his gaze almost shyly. He blinks down at her, his face completely devoid of expression, and once again she's moving without them uttering another word, continuing their dance, rehearsed thousands of times over the past century.

Her pale hands are a blur as she unbuttons and then unzips his jeans; his length, already rigid from delivering her punishment, springing forth from their confines. She suppresses a smile at his hiss of pleasure as her small hand wraps around his cock, stroking him slowly before she lowers her head, her tongue laving across his tip before she takes him into her mouth.

She can feel his hand fist almost painfully in her hair as she begins to move, her tongue swirling around him as she pulls away, only to take him in deeper every time, his grip on her hair pulling her closer as he flexes his hips up into her mouth.

Soon, she has him writhing beneath her, leaving her wondering who is truly taking the most punishment between them. She can feel the muscles of his thighs trembling beneath her hands, and she knows he's as close as she is.

She pulls away suddenly despite his snarl of protest, denying him just as he denied her. Taking a chance, knowing she's breaking their rules, she leans up to capture his lips, her tongue invading his mouth. She pulls back only slightly, just enough to whisper against his lips, her need for him making her voice tremble, "Come _with _me, min prins."

As she pulls away, Eric studies her face in silence for a moment, before he reaches out, wrapping his hand around her throat, his thumb slipping into her mouth as she opens it obediently, her plump, full lips wrapping around it as he contemplates her request.

"Är det vad min prinsessa vill ha?" he whispers in his native tongue, his voice husky.

He smiles as she nods her head, her big, beautiful blue eyes sparkling. He can pretend he will deny her, but what's the use? They both know what his princess wants, his princess always gets. Isn't that what brought them here in the first place?

He lingers just long enough that she starts to squirm, before he slowly pulls her to her feet by his grip on her throat. Even though he's still taller than her even sitting, and clearly the one in control, he can't help feeling a stab of pride as she keeps her chin held high.

She blinks as he leans in, pressing his lips softly to hers, his movements suddenly deceptively gentle. But just as she moves to climb into his lap, he strikes, slamming her roughly to the floor and pinning her there, before his hips surge forward, burying his length inside her with one smooth stroke.

She cries out in surprise as he immediately takes up a brutal pace, slamming himself inside her roughly over and over again. Desperate to feel his skin against hers, she fists his shirt before she pulls, sending buttons bouncing all over the dressing room. His growl goes unheeded as she grasps at his bare shoulders, her fingernails digging into his flesh, as she tries desperately to pull him closer, her legs wrapping around his waist as his hips move ruthlessly against her.

When she shoves against his chest, deciding she's done with his power play, searching for her own moment of dominance, he snarls, his hands gripping her wrists to pull them above her head, pinning her there. Their lips meet in a heated, desperate kiss, both of them losing their battle to keep at least somewhat quiet, forgetting where they are in the heat of the moment as she begins to cry out his name, his own animalistic snarls rising above her hoarse voice.

Her hips rise to meet his with every stroke, and his fangs slide down as he feels her walls begin to tighten around his length. He growls, never slowing his strokes inside her, "Not yet. Not until I fucking say so, min lilla jävla skitunge."

She cries out in frustration as he denies her for the second time, her own fangs slamming down in protest before she bares them at him, only causing him to grin as his thrusts become more powerful.

But even as they do, he releases her wrists, moving his arms to cradle her against him, and when he looks up, his hips still as he catches their reflection in the broken mirror, her blonde hair spilling out onto the floor as he towers over her, and for a moment, he's amazed at what their reflections so effectively captures.

She allows him the chance to do what is deepest in his nature, to dominate. And she doesn't have to. She _chooses _to. She satisfies him in ways he didn't know he needed to be and doesn't expect him to be something he's not.

She's perfect, spoiled little brat or not. Perfect for him.

They're perfect _together_.

He lowers his face to hers, kissing her gently, reverently, even as their fangs slice into their lips, both of them groaning at their first taste of each other's blood of the evening, before he finally begins to move again, this time his pace gentle, worshiping her as she deserves to be.

But, he does have one last command for the evening, before their little game is through. He leans down, nipping at her earlobe, before he growls his words in her ear, feeling her beginning to fall apart as soon as his command takes hold.

"Komma med _mig._"

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**A/N: Like? Review!**

**Translations:**

**min prinsessa - my princess**

**min prins- my prince**

**min mästare - my master**

**mitt barn - my child**

**Är det vad min prinsessa vill ha? - Is that what my princess wants?**

**min lilla jävla skitunge - my little fucking brat**

**komma med mig - come with me**


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